Purchases for the office in a minute. Not fighting the home work are anymore, not even this stupid desk. 7:37 and the sun coming. up over one of the houses. It feels early. Not early enough. Jack and Emma up and are already with demands. Breakfast, a cartoon, soon I’m sure a blanket from upstairs and who knows what else. At least I have this, right now at the table.
Coffee pods, espresso pods…. what else do I need? Don’t think anything else. That may do it. Don’t want to think about money right now. Music…. That’s what I want. That’s all I want this morning.
Then the arguing starts. SHIT, SHUT UP!!! I only say in head. I also explain to them, in my head where no one but this crazy writer rides, “No one wants to read about kids and how they mess up the morning. SHUSH!!” Back to looking for music…. Arcade Fire. Haven’t listened to their work in years. Was introduced to them back int he Dutcher Crossing days, where I worked in the house, or “cottage” as we called it, having my own desk and just in front of me a guy who loved music. We’d talk about it throughout the day, sometimes on Fridays after work or during week at EOD we’d open beers and go. through playlists, look up new tracks. He’d introduce me to acts and bands like AF and I’d show him some of my more recent findings.
I start writing a poem, or lyric, but then realize my tangent and scatter and stop. This is my planet, this page in the morning. The music is playing in all hours. The office, my planet. Thinking of the beach house, how I can get there with just one switch flip, I tell myself. Sip coffee again, the cup I bought for self, “Yes, I speak Kerouac.” on the front.
Speaking of Dutcher days, I opened the Bucher Pinot last night. Thought there was something off about it, but then I remembered the characteristics and character of Bucher fruit. The dairy farm, what not…. The funky kind-of-lactic language from the initial olfactory walk to the palate’s act. Its own music. Defined and deliberate. Some wouldn’t like it, mainstream dream-sippers I call them. But Pinot or just wine chasers and not even writers but deep lovers would take to the bottle’s not at all odd oddities.
Pinot…. Was supposed to have a Pinot night for Dad’s birthday, but that now is unplugged and ceased in development. With us being sick, my and the big kids, and the covid cases doing a rocket-shot to some high sky, who knows when it’ll happen. So, back do devout lockdown.
Change music. LoFi beats. More morning manuscript meant. Connection and identity like the Pinot. Pronounced and individual. No excess thought or deliberation in selecting it. I just do. Want a drive. So I offer breakfast to the two chirping young people in the other room?